


Cry Wolf

by Catallii



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Madeleine Era, Montreuil-sur-Mer, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:41:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24845470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catallii/pseuds/Catallii
Summary: It is winter in Montreuil-sur-Mer, and beasts stalk the edges of society, ravenous and cold – both the animal, and the human. Javert happens upon Monsieur Madeleine after he deals with one such beast, and cannot quite shake the sensation that, under different circumstances, he might have been hunted just as easily.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 5
Kudos: 45





	Cry Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> I asked myself if I was done writing les mis fic that's steeped in dread and UST and the answer was no. no I'm not
> 
> this fic serves as a sort-of-prequel to [parle du loup](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22778770), but it's totally readable without it. thanks to pigeonfeatherquill for the prompt!

The sharp retort of the rifle shattered the silence of the cold winter morning like a fist through a windowpane.

Javert’s first instinct was that something terrible had just occurred. He stopped in his tracks, cocking his head in the direction the sound had come from. Somewhere close by, near the city walls, perhaps. It was not quite dawn yet; the sky was only just starting to fade from inky black to a washed-out, sodden grey. Every law-abiding citizen of Montreuil-sur-Mer was still abed. There was no good reason for a gunshot to ring out in this place, at this hour; something must be the matter. An altercation – or a murder. He’d been on his way to the station house to start his shift, but there was no time for that now, so he turned on his heel and took off sprinting.

He skidded to a stop at the end of the street, where the houses gave way to the stone walls, and his breath caught short.

Monsieur Madeleine was standing atop the ramparts, a rifle held loosely in his hands. He leant slightly forward as he looked out beyond the wall, but the slope of his broad shoulders was relaxed, an easy readiness that reminded Javert of – he took a sharp breath. He’d seen that sort of stance before, in the guards who patrolled the walls of the _bagne_ in Toulon. Surveilling. Alert.

Madeleine’s right leg dragged slightly behind his left.

For a moment the world doubled, images of a convict and a Mayor superimposed one upon the other. Was this it, then – the slip, the sudden fall off the teetering knife-edge? After years of circling M. le Maire, by turns doubting and certain Madeleine was circling him back, was he now to be proven right? What had Madeleine done?

He lowered the rifle slowly until the barrel pointed at the flagstones, still looking out over the wall, and for once the careful mask of his smiles was nowhere to be seen. The face under it felt at once unsettlingly familiar and completely foreign to Javert. It wasn’t the bitter anger of the convict that furrowed his brow, nor the gentle kindness of the Mayor that thinned his lips. Javert stalked towards the stairs.

Madeleine’s gaze slid sideways at that moment, and caught on him. The man started minutely, and Javert saw his fingers tighten fractionally on the stock. Javert’s own hand itched for his cudgel, and he clamped down on the instinct to reach for it immediately. So Madeleine was better armed than he was; he would take his chances if it turned into a fight.

He took the steps two at a time – and stopped short as he reached the top, taken aback. This was no murder. The target of Madeleine’s shot hadn’t even been human. A grey wolf lay out in the field a ways from the wall, a bright streak of red staining the snow around it. It was unmoving; dead. An animal, then, nothing more. Javert felt suddenly cold, as though the ice that clung to the eaves and filled the cracks between the cobblestones had decided instead to make a home of his ribcage.

“A shame to kill one of God’s creatures,” Madeleine said softly, “but Père Dubois told me it devoured two of his sheep, and it nearly had the Chevaliers’ boy.” He sighed, a small, tired sound.

Now that he was close to the man, he could see the shadows around Madeleine’s eyes. The collar of his coat was turned high against the wind and the chill; his cheeks were reddened, his hair wind-swept. How long had he been here – hours? All night?

He shuddered at the sudden image of Madeleine, standing in the still and silent stance of a hunter under the hanging moon. Madeleine, staring into the thrumming darkness, waiting for the wolf to cross his path, unaware. Madeleine, bringing the rifle up to brush his cheekbone, sighting down the barrel. Pulling the trigger. A life ended in a moment.

“Walk with me?”

Javert blinked. He and M. le Maire interacted plenty – Montreuil-sur-Mer was a small town, and after all Javert had his own reasons to keep an eye on Madeleine – but this was the first time the man had ever requested his presence outside an official capacity. Curiosity piqued despite himself, he acceded.

They made stilted conversation as they walked; Madeleine asked if he’d been heading to the station-house, and Javert responded briefly in the affirmative.

“I wasn’t aware M. le Maire had such good aim,” he said, probing, looking at Madeleine out of the corner of his eye. Or perhaps his tone veered too close to accusatory, for the mask snapped back into place again.

“Oh – well. I had much time to practice in my youth; I grew up in the countryside.”

Yes, Javert thought, he knew _that_ well enough. A country upbringing. It was one of the only points on which M. Madeleine’s history coincided, however remotely, with that of the man he suspected to be hiding behind the Mayor’s starched cuffs and pressed cravat.

Madeleine smiled gently, eyes bright as they caught the red light of dawn stealing over the rooftops. His breath left a cloud of ice crystals hanging in the air with every exhale.

“Ah, it appears we’ve arrived.” 

The windows of the _mairie_ were unlit, but the glass caught the vivid orange-reds of the sunrise; it made the building look almost as though it were on fire.

“If you’ll excuse me, I should have this returned to Père Dubois.” Madeleine continued, readjusting his grip on the rifle. “Thank you for the company, Javert.”

“Monsieur le Maire.” He bowed, no more or less deeply than was appropriate for a superior, then walked away with steady stride. No crime had been committed, after all. There was no reason for him to linger.

Nevertheless, the spot between his shoulder blades itched until he turned the corner, and the image of Madeleine’s hands on the rifle haunted his thoughts for the rest of the day.

✧

Javert strode towards the _mairie_ with quick and confident step; it was late, but he knew M. le Maire would still be working. There was a report to be made; wolves were not the only beasts that preyed on the vulnerable, after all. Montreuil-sur-Mer’s prosperity was a warm flame in the dead of winter, an irresistible lure to the scum that fed off society, the detritus of humanity. He’d dealt with one such collection of detritus today: a small gang responsible for a series of break-ins in the area. The pain in his back was dull and insistent, and he would likely regret not removing his gloves before the blood oh his hands dried, but there was a restless energy in him that demanded action. Javert was flush with the thrill of the hunt and the satisfaction success carried, and he would not stop now.

“Javert.” Madeleine looked surprised to see him, pausing in the middle of arranging his desk.

“My apologies for the lateness of the hour.” He sketched a bow. “You asked to be informed immediately when we apprehended the perpetrators of the robbery at the Beaulieus’ residence.”

“So I did. I take it, then, that you’ve been successful?”

He grinned, baring his teeth. “Perfectly.”

There was a tightness around Madeleine’s eyes, he thought, but the man smiled all the same.

“Please, sit.” He gestured to the pair of chairs that sat before the fireplace. “I was just about to pour myself tea; would you care for some?”

“No, Monsieur, thank you.”

Madeleine withdrew two teacups from the cabinet anyway; Javert suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Instead he sat down and began to outline the details of the case.

“We’ve learned they are the same men wanted in Azincourt, for the murder of a farmer,” he explained, “who came home early, and interrupted their work. They pretended to be locksmiths, you see, and used disguise to pass unnoticed while they preyed on _honest_ citizens.” Once more Javert fixed his gaze on Madeleine, waiting for a slip, anything – and once more the man gave him nothing beyond a pensive glance.

“It is good that you were able to uncover them, then.”

He handed Javert one of the teacups, and Javert reached to take, it more out of obligation than any real desire. As he did, Madeleine’s fingers brushed over his knuckles. Even through the gloves the touch stung, and he hissed, jerking reflexively, then hastily bit off a curse as hot tea splashed over the leather. 

Grimacing, he removed the gloves and set them aside, and for the first time Madeleine’s gaze landed on his bare hands, taking in the bruise on his wrist, and his knuckles, split despite the gloves’ protection. He deposited the teacup on the end table, looking absurdly concerned.

“They resisted arrest,” Javert clarified. “Vigorously.” It was just as well, he decided, that M. le Maire couldn’t see the other bruise spread across his back, courtesy of the moment one of the thieves had momentarily gained the upper hand and shoved him – hard – into a solid oak shelf.

Madeleine’s hands moved back to his, catching his wrist in a gentle grip that burned nonetheless. Javert hissed again, and his hand twitched in the other man’s grasp. The gesture caused a bead of red to well up again from his middle knuckle and burst, trickling between his fingers. He glanced down at it and looked back up to find Madeleine regarding him with an intensity he couldn’t put into words. He felt trapped – sighted. The memory of Madeleine’s hands on the stock of the rifle rushed over him like a wave. It was like having the phantom of it pointed at his breastbone.

“May I?” the man asked gently, drawing a handkerchief from the pocket of his tailcoat. Javert nodded jerkily, mouth suddenly dry.

Madeleine pressed the handkerchief against his knuckles.

“Does it hurt?”

“It’s fine,” he replied brusquely. Not that it didn't sting, but frankly it was preferable to focus on that, rather than the warmth of the hands folded over his. 

Madeleine’s thumb brushed against the inside of his wrist, and Javert’s mind went perfectly blank.

The sensation did not send a tingling jolt up his spine.

He did not wish for Madeleine to do it again.

“You were telling me of the arrest?” the Mayor propted, voice almost a murmur.

But if he _were_ to do it again, would it cause that same frisson a second time? Surely not.

“... Javert?”

The sound of his own name jerked him back to the present: Madeleine was looking at him, head tilted, a smile ghosting around the corners of his mouth. Was that amusement in his eyes, or was it simply the way the firelight danced? He swallowed, forcing himself to recall the relevant names and facts. His voice sounded rough to his own ears as he recounted the rest of the details, but Madeleine made no comment.

“I see,” he said, once Javert’s account was complete. Then, “Ah – there we are.”

He lifted the handkerchief from Javert’s knuckles and held it out to him; Javert took it mechanically. Their fingers brushed again as it traded hands.

“Thank you for coming to deliver your report directly.” And this time he did smile.

“You asked to be informed without delay,” Javert breathed. “Monsieur le Maire.”

Madeleine leaned in by degrees—

Javert stood, snatching his gloves from the table.

“Good evening, Monsieur.” 

He hadn’t the faintest idea whether his bow was deep or shallow; it did not matter – he quit the office with a speed that was almost embarrassing, and did not stop until he’d reached the street corner. The cold of the winter night wrapped around him like a shawl, and he drew a lungful of crystal-clear air. That was – that had been – he pressed his knuckles to his mouth, letting the pain ground him.

It would not be right. Either M. Madeleine was an honest man, and by far his social superior, or—

The crack of the rifle echoed through his mind.

Or _nothing,_ he thought. Or he was a criminal to be caught and exposed, nothing more.

Javert lowered his hands, lips pressed in a thin line, and started walking again.

He returned the handkerchief to M. Madeleine two days later, laundered and pressed. If he noticed the brief flicker of disappointment that passed behind the Mayor’s eyes, he said nothing of it.


End file.
